I think of things to write about, but when the time comes, I go stone cold. Is this writers block? If so, then maybe I don’t have what it takes to write a book, maybe I don’t have the charisma to hostess a blog, to live my life by the way of pen, by the stroke of the ink, by the code of the keypad.
I get inspired to write only when I cannot, namely when I am struggling against sleep, tossing in the sea of the comforter, tangled in the seaweed of the sheet, mind racing while the body cannot.
So here I am, hanging out with myself on a late fall evening, bored and avoiding Marigold.
Maybe we broke up and I was too distracted to even notice, maybe that’s it. Whenever I call on Marigold, when I am ready, when I have time, I have already lost motivation because of how long I have avoided my blog baby. Marigold has run away, and I do not blame her.
It’s like I am nervous, or scared, intimidated, unclear, and for the first time in my life, unopinionated.
It certainly is strange, but I miss Marigold, and I do hope she starts to stop by a little more often than never.